The Face of the Voice
by Stirack
Summary: This is a two-shot, Mainly Leroux, with sprinkles of Kay if you squint. Basis- what if the Shah, after Erik had built his one of a kind palace, gone through with his plan to put out Erik's yellow eyes instead of deciding it would be safer just to kill Erik. What if Erik hadn't escaped Persia before his sentence of blinding was carried out? How would his life character differ? AU
1. Chapter 1

Upon hearing the click of the secret apartment door, my eyes lazily opened as I yawned. I must have fallen asleep on the settee, for it seemed only moments ago Erik had stated he was going 'shopping'. My suspicions were proven correct when a tall, shadowy skeleton of a man slipped soundlessly through the opening in the fine cedar paneled walls (for if they were not cedar, the moisture from the lake would have surely rotted his underground home), arms full of boxes and parcels. Remaining quietly tucked into the leather couch cushions, I expected the masked maestro to greet me upon his return- only to have him walk straight past me without any acknowledgement once so ever.

Puzzled by his dismissal of my presence when he usually followed me about like a dutiful puppy, I stayed lying on my side with my head on the arm of the sofa. _Maybe he believed I was sleeping?_ That was it, he thought I was resting and didn't wish to disturb me. Pulling myself into a sitting position, my thoughts that Erik had ignored me out of courtesy vanished when he re-entered the parlour from the kitchen, again walking straight past my silent form before turning to retrieve another box which I noticed contained blank composition paper and several bottles of red ink. When he finally turned and stared right at me, I smiled in a silent hello, locking my blue gaze with his peculiar, shining yellow eyes. I have to admit, despite the un-loveliness of their setting, those golden eyes were breathtaking. His irises were such a startlingly deep and pure shade of saffron that I could barely discern them from his pupils. As I smiled, I couldn't help but feel as if something was amiss- while I was intently focused on his masked countenance, Erik almost appeared to be looking through me like I was not there. Also, he still had yet to say a word or even nod in my direction. My lips pursed in mounting confusion as he turned back away, striding to the piano with the paper and ink in hand.

My curiosity was peaked to say the least. Watching him more intently, I noticed with new sight how he ran his dextral fingers over the glossy wooden surface of the piano, only stopping when he reached the dwindling stack of paper where he then placed the newly purchased materials.

A slow realization was dawning upon me as I watched him again exit the parlour without a word. To prove my unnamed hypothesis correct, I stood, following Erik to where he'd disappeared into the kitchen and halting in the doorway. I ran a hand over my skirts to smooth out the creases, and only after this slight shuffling did Erik speak.

"Good evening, Christine- did you take that nap while I was away?" He kept his back turned towards me as he spoke, busily placing dried goods and other cooking materials into the cupboards.

"Yes, I did- in my room," I lied, testing and slowly proving correct my creeping realization as the masked man turned and smiled slightly to me. The idea occurred to me that Erik had not turned towards until _after_ I'd spoken, therefore waiting until my voice could give away my exact location because the shifting cloth could not.

"Well, I'm glad you got your rest- you'd been slumping about the house like a zombie dragging your feet over the carpet all day after all!"

I joined his slight chuckle with a half-hearted one of my own, the now blatantly obvious fact that he had pointed out the _sound_ of my dragging feet rather than the _sight_ of my scraggly hair and dark rimmed eyes. And as I again locked gazes with his eyes skillfully trained on my face merely by hearing where my voice issued from, I knew.

Erik was _blind!_

I don't know how it had taken me this long to figure it out- nearly five months! Little things that I had barely noticed now stood out in stark relief of black and white truth. The way he always ran his fingers lightly over the furniture he passed and the fact he owned such an impressive library, yet never read, all made sense now. Those fantastic eyes that I had earlier called shining and cat-like now held a definite glossy, unfocused sheen. With a harder look, I was able to tell that his pupils were not blending in with the color of his dark irises because of the lighting, but because they were that unnatural, blotchy black and white and gray color seen only in those who'd had their eyes purposefully put out.

_Erik was blind!_

And with great horror I realized it was not of the natural sort- In my travels with Father, I'd seen people who'd had their eyes put out- those from the East and middle land of Persia. Either by hot poker or some other ghastly means, the proof lay in the unseeing glimmer of those startling saffron eyes.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" A cold, boney hand lightly touched the back of my wrist, causing me to jolt and stare wide-eyed into Erik's expressionless, black masked face. "Forgive me," he drew away, more than a little dejection evident in the slump of his shoulders and the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"My mind was drifting," I muttered uncomfortably. We'd had an unspoken no touching rule ever since I'd screamed from the feel of those skeletal, deathly frigid hands covering my mouth

"Would you like some supper, Christine?" If a grown man could resemble a kicked puppy, then my masked maestro did in every aspect of his shamed demeanor. A small stab of pity and guilt knifed through my conscience; had it been Raoul- or any other person, for that matter- I would have thought nothing of a simple touch of the hand. Erik, however, was not just any person, and my lingering horror of my music teacher after learning of his demonic temper held fast even after knowing him as _Erik_ for so long now instead of _Angel._

"Yes, I would," I responded quickly. With a new fascination I watched as he skillfully prepared me a small plate of chicken and vegetables made by him the night before.

"Wine, Christine?"

At my acceptance, he kicked open the cellar trapdoor, returning in short time with the bottle. "I thought white would be better with the chicken." Lightly grasping the wine glass in his dextral fingers, Erik slowly tipped the bottle back, pouring the fine white wine.

Again, I noted the tell-tale sign of his blindness. Though he didn't focus on the task he was performing, I did notice, however, the way he pressed his fingers against the middle of the glass and halted the flow of wine when the chilled liquor reached the point in the glass level with his fingers on the outside.

"Thank you," I murmured taking the offered wine.

Like the dutiful host he was, Erik chattered as amiably as his limited social skills permitted without the intrusion of the awkward pause. As I always did, I found my gaze drawn to his hands as he spoke, the subtle motions paired with that melodic, beautiful voice lulling me into a heavy sense of peace. My trance was only broken when Erik removed my empty dishes from the table and went to the sink.

"I'll do that!" I exclaimed rather too quickly, springing from my seat and scurrying to the kitchen counter.

A small flicker of surprise flashed across those unseeing eyes.

"...If you wish," Erik withdrew from the sink, lacing his incredibly long, spider-like fingers together in front of him. "I have some compositions which need my attention; goodnight, my dear." And he retreated out of the kitchen and no doubt to his mortuary chamber of a bedroom, where he kept the main concentration of his music.

"Poor, unhappy Erik!" I sniffled, silently reprimanding myself for such unshed tears. "To create such beauty, yet never glimpse its perfection himself…" I scrubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, turning to the dishes with yet another sniffle.

"_Yes,"_ came a whisper, at that time unheard by my ears. "_Poor, unhappy Erik indeed…"_


	2. Chapter 2

I was not to enter his room without invitation.

Quite frankly, I did not _wish_ to enter that morgue, even when bid to by my masked _ange._ One should not be subjected to such blatant and unabashed death and melancholy in their life, let alone choose to _sleep_ in such a place- and in an ebony casket, nonetheless!

No, I feared that dark, macabre room with its black mourning candles hung all about in silver candelabras and their pewter dishes, oozing black wax like long shed blood oxidized by the still, gravely air. The notes and words of Mozart's, _Dies Irae_ inscribed upon the wallpaper and the ominous pipe organ covering a complete wall, sent primitive shivers of terror crawling up my spine- not to again even mention the signature representation of death placed on the raised dais, surrounded by heavy burgundy hangings, where my curious teacher willing rested his head at night…

Yes, I held a great and healthy amount of fear for Erik's morbid room which he called "_his own in all the house by the lake and the only one not for darling, angelic Christine"._

...So why was I now quietly tapping on Erik's great ebony door with the intentions of gaining entrance to the room which inspired such horrors?

Well, for one, the masked musician had been locked away within his bedchambers for but an hour short of twenty-four, giving me the slightest bit of reason to worry. Though his health was an ingredient in the recipe of my weary alarm, it was, admittedly, not the most pressing of issues I felt could be at hand. I felt that no man, even one such as Erik, could work for twenty-three consecutive hours; idle hands are the devil's playmate as they say, and I had good reason to fear this saying when it pertained to Erik.

A wine cellar teeming with black powder and a mad genius in the grips of _ennui_ was not, I daresay, a situation I particularly fancied coming to terms with.

Another knock, another empty answer of silence.

"...Erik…?" against my better judgement, I tried the doorknob. It turned, to my great surprise, for he always kept his door securely locked. For reasons I could not name, I found the courage to take a cautious step into the threshold of the blackened room, wound tighter than a spring about to pop. With one hand still on the knob, my eyes took several moments longer than I'd have like to adjust to the unlit room. After I grew accustomed to the darkness- though not comfortable, for nothing could cure me of my wretched achluophobia- I could make out the darker shapes of the furniture scattered about, enabling me to locate a free candle and discarded matchbox. My fingers hit another object on the table- a porcelain object. _Why on Earth is his mask just lying here?_ As I struck a match and watched as it hissed to life, I finally found my peculiar teacher.

He was _inside _the coffin.

*(On later analysis, I'm rather shocked that seeing him in the casket surprised and frightened me so- it is not as if I hadn't already known Erik slept in it. Perhaps it was just the sight of a living man lying in a coffin which caught me off guard.)

My hands began to tremble as I held fast to the dwindling match crushed between my thumb and forefinger, fearful that I would drop or blow out my small light source before I had a chance to light the candle. Despite my horror and disgust at the macabre scene before me, my feet were inclined to bring me closer to the still figure in the open casket. Resting twitching fingers on the side of the box, my gaze traveled over Erik's sleeping form- for I knew he was quite asleep by the steadiness of his breath. For a man of his exceptional height and long, spidery limbs, he somehow managed to curl up on his side with his knees brought to his chest in the tight confines of the casket, his face hidden in the folds of crimson satin lining. His uncut sable hair, usually controlled within the confines of a tie, was scattered in sleepy dishevelment, blanketing his bony shoulder and the pillow. My face flushed a deep shade of pink as I realize he was only wearing loose -fitting sleep trousers while his shirt, waistcoat and tails were thrown carelessly over the wingback chair at his desk. Despite my innocent embarrassment at seeing any man- _especially_ Erik!- without full day dress, I leaned further over the opening of the coffin to get a better look at my eccentric teacher. Almost without realizing it, I retrieved the comforter piled on the floor beside the dais where it had evidently been thrown, pulling it quietly over Erik's sleeping form. I watched with bated breath as his hand twitched slightly, exhaling with relief when he moved no more.

"Poor man," I whispered, nearly reaching out to brush away a long lock of hair from his shoulder but pulling away at the last moment. "He never seems to stop working or running errands, no wonder he's out cold."

With one last glance at the still, _living_ figure in the coffin, I turned to make my escape from the eerie shadows and imaginary monsters my mind was beginning to conjure up in the corner of my eye; but not before a voice which should not have spoken reached my ears with an almost sickeningly sweet tone.

"Leaving in such a hurry, my darling? I at least thought you'd sing me a lullaby; you're so fond of childish things, after all."

A grip as cold and strong as iron latched onto my wrist, pulling me back the few steps I'd been able to take before Erik had alerted me to his wakefulness. I turned back to stare wide eyed into his masked- but hadn't I seen that damn thing on the table?- face, those eyes shining unnaturally bright in the dim light much like a cat's.

"_Erik's room is his own in all the house by the lake and the only one not for darling, angelic Christine"._

Must I always defy his word when I know doing so spells disaster to all, myself especially?

"I...I…" my mouth moved, but no sound issued from my throat.

Without releasing his tight grip on my wrist, Erik half crawled from his coffin, towering over me with unfitting laughter dancing in his empty eyes.

"Surely, my dear, you realized that one who has led a life such as I must sleep lightly? You never know who may be trying to catch you off guard."

When I continued to remain silent, dumb with horror, the humor Erik portrayed quickly changed to a scowl.

"If you wish to express yourself my dear, speak! It seems you've finally figured out I am unable to _see_ your unabashed horror_,"_ he spat the last words like a deadly poison.

"...I'm sorry... for coming into your room…" I threw in the last bit quickly,hoping against all odds that he would not hear the underlying pity in my tone.

The odds, as they always seem to be, were not in my favor.

"I do not wish to hear the damnable pity in your voice!" He all but growled the words, his free hand curling into a tight fist.

I cringed as the hold he had on my wrist tightened as well, the feeling that the bones would shatter at any moment. "It was not… pity." I felt watery tears begin to gather in my eyes from equal amounts of pain and fear.

"Then what was it, pray tell? Empathy?" Erik sneered and chuckled horridly as I numbly made a whimper of agreement.

I tried aimlessly to root my feet into the ground as he pulled my wrist higher and myself closer to his person, but the slippers on my feet held on traction on the plush Persian carpet. The fires of rage within his eyes seemed to dampen at the pathetic, fearful squeak which issued from my mouth, choked with tears that now ran down my pale cheeks.

His voice was surprisingly soft and- dare I imagine it?- nostalgic as he spoke again. "To have empathy for another…" he loosened his grip on my wrist enough to relieve the pain, but did not release me, "...Requires prior knowledge of one's pains. You, my dear, despite the losses you've suffered in your short life, could not begin to imagine, let alone empathize the state your poor, unhappy Erik…"

A prolonged period of silence held sway over the two of us for far longer than was comfortable. Just when I believed he would release me to escape his room- which I now dreaded even more than before- he did _quite_ the opposite. With speed far beyond what my eyes could follow, he pulled me flush against him, my back pressed to his lean torso while each of his hands held on of my wrists. No air would enter or leave my burning lungs.

"...Do you know _why_ I fell in love with you, _mon Ange?"_

"N-no...no…"

Erik's breath was so cold; it felt as if Death himself were holding me tightly against his skeletal body.

Don't scream, don't scream…

"Silly child," he chided icily, using his mastery of ventriloquism to throw his voice to different shadows of the room. "You truly do not know? Or do you think I merely adore you for your beauty like your little _Vicomte?" _Erik snickered cynically, his deathly hands releasing my wrists. Just when I believe he was releasing me, he snaked one bony arm around my waist, the other hand hand coming to grasp my chin. He held me so tightly against the wall of his chest I could feel every one of his ribs digging into my back.

The little breath I had caught in my throat as I heard him slip off his mask and hold the blank, ebony porcelain piece before my face.

"Do you not realize how ironic that would be? Not only would it be hypocritical for one as monstrous as I to judge appearance, but I am unable to _see_ it anyway; rather humorous, don't you think, that I have heard every man in my theatre speak of only your divine beauty, while it is the only aspect of your being which I do _not _love you for?"

The fear I felt for my macabre teacher lessened considerably the moment I heard the sharp edge of pain in Erik's voice.

_Yes,_ I realized silently, _for all the vulgar men in the Opera which only look at my physical beauty, Erik is the only one to ever love me without that factor tainting his heart…_ The fact was a pity driven stab to the heart.

"Why do you not speak to your poor Erik?" He turned me around so quickly it jarred my neck, his blank mask again covering that demented visage even as his sightless eyes brimmed with tears. "He who loves you because of the beauty of your voice and in your heart, regardless of whatever you may look like!" The whine in his voice was all too child-like for a man in his mid forties. The masked man continued to rave like a lunatic even as he released his hold on me.

"If only I _could _see my darling Christine… I know she would be beautiful… her hand is so delicate when it brushes mine when she does not mean to, her voice is so divine as to make angels weep, and she always smells faintly of lavender and roses…"

Erik drew away from me like a beaten dog, ready to run from his own room, but the unwavering tone of my voice halted him in his tracks; it surprised me as well.

"I am five feet and two inches tall."

"What…?"

I grasped one of his stiff hands and held it between both of mine.

"I've always been a bit too slender for a girl my age- I almost look as if I'm thriteen instead twenty." I spoke slowly, fully realizing that Erik's hand was shaking violently in mine. "My hair is blond, but so light a shade sometimes I fear it looks white- I hate it. It's so curly I have a hard time brushing it."

Swallowing the forming lump in my throat, I raised Erik's lithe hand and placed it on the long curls which fell over my shoulder. His saffron eyes widened in shock, his whole wasted frame shuddering as his fingers pet softly at my hair in wonder.

"What color are your eyes? Please tell Erik, he can still remember what colors look like…"

Tears began to pool down my cheeks at the hunger for at least a foggy picture of me to go by evident in his pathetic plea.

"Blue- Papa always said my eyes were the color of the summer sky… here," taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage and raised his hand gently from it's nest in my golden hair and placed his deathly fingers upon my face.

Erik nearly collapsed in a sobbing heap at my feet as I allowed him to see my face through his hands. I refrained from shuddering when his frigid, skeletal fingers traced every contour of my face.

"Why is Christine crying so? I'm I truly that terrible?" He hurriedly wiped away my tears before pulling away, falling to his knees and resting his masked forehead on the Persian carpeted floor. "You are such a good, sweet girl to even allow Erik within the same room as you…"

God, how I wished he would stop that infuriatingly detached form of referring to himself…

My masked teacher slowly lifted his full mask only enough to reveal his thin, nearly nonexistent lips, kissing the fingers which had touch my face reverently.

"You are so beautiful… even a foggy dream of an image that could be you is infinitely more wonderful than the last thing I ever saw before the Shah said for my cat's eyes to be put out…"

"The Shah?" I questioned gently, lowering myself to the ground as well and placing a timid hand on his thin shoulder.

That tone of nostalgia returned to his angelic voice, but other than that he seemed to be regaining his sense if referring to himself in the first person was any consolation…

"Nearly twenty years ago I traveled to Persia… The great Shah himself had ordered his chief of police to search all of Russia just to find me and ask to employ my services… I was promised power and security in return for entertaining the Persian court with my magic. And then came the day when the Shah asked me to build him a new palace…"

"And did you?" I did not pull away when he took my hand from his shoulder and softly stroked my small fingers, seeming to draw some great comfort from my nearness.

"Yes," Erik answered gravely. "I built him his palace with magic walls and hidden rooms… truly it was a palace unlike any other in it's magnificence and grandeur; and the Shah knew it, too. The Shah's mother, th Khanum, the _great mother of the world," _he spat the title as if it were a deadly poison, "convinced her son that it would be wise to keep his palace _unlike any other_. So, what better way to prevent an architect from ever designing again then making sure he cannot see the drafting papers before him?"

"So they…?"

"Yes." The masked maestro responded curtly. He gave a cynical little chuckle, turning his glazed gaze to the floor. "The Khanum was a sadist- she ever so much enjoyed other's suffering. And my, my, the horrid grudge she held against me- I've never really figured out _what_ she held against me either. So, it was her brilliant plan to make sure the last thing I saw was what I feared and despised most in the world."

"What?" I was afraid to ask.

"My own reflection." Erik said the words as if they were the most simple explanation in the world.

My heart broke for the poor man in front of me.

"Though on further reflection, the Shah believed putting out my eyes was not enough to stop me from building another great palace like his own- and it wasn't, for I continued to design even after I escaped that hellacious desert country with my life- and planned to have me executed."

Erik sighed, sounding as if the burden of Atlas rested on his shoulders, and stood from the floor. "But that is a tale for another time… my darling, it is late, and you are weary. Leave me, will you?"

I silently obeyed his tired command, quietly shutting the door to his mortuary bedchamber and standing still in the hall outside. I flinched from distinct sound of splintering wood as the pipe organ stool was most likely smashed against the wall within Erik's room. Another heavy thud signalled he'd either smashed something too solid to break or his fist into the cedar panelling in his continued rage.

I quietly weeped for the damaged soul of a man whose life was unchangeably entwined with my own and who loved me with a most terrible, beautiful, and obsessive love.

"Poor, unhappy Erik…"


End file.
